XIX

He could not, if you asked him then or even later, recall when it started. He honestly did not know. Everything was going along so well. Lucien was happier than he'd been in a very long time. He and Mrs. Beazley were friends. Very good friends. They had an easy rhythm between them, sharing their days and her assisting with his work and the both of them managing just fine with it all.

Lucien honestly did not know when he began to look at her with so much more than a friendly fondness. Her beauty was undeniable, and that he had noticed from nearly the first moment he saw her. There was something in her eyes and the way she moved and the fit of her clothes that mesmerized him. But he'd spend time around many beautiful women in the past, none of whom had affected him like this. And their conversations had turned so much deeper and personal of late. He'd told her more than he'd ever told a living soul. And that was certainly saying something. Oh he'd not told her everything, but he knew that was coming. He knew that when he did tell her everything, it would more than likely be the last straw to send her for the hills. And he really wouldn't blame her.

But Lucien wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her of his past, of what had brought him to this sorry state. He wanted to share with her all his fears and regrets, and he wanted to share with her all his hopes and joys. It was a recent thing, really, that he'd had any hopes at all. And it was all because of her, he knew. Mrs. Beazley…Jean…inspired in him a whole host of optimistic feelings he'd never before given a moment's thought. She had found him under the willow tree that night and had rescued him from himself over and over nearly every day since. When he'd realized that, he did not know. But he knew it now. And time would come, before long, when he would have to find a way to tell her.

It was after catechism one evening when these thoughts swirled around in his mind. She was kneeling down talking to one of the younger children whose mother was late picking her up. And as Lucien stacked chairs, he found his eye drifting to the way Mrs. Beazley's skirt was rather tight over her bum when she bent down. He knew he shouldn't look, and even if he looked, he knew he shouldn't really take notice. But his heart quickened in his chest at the sight of her. That had been happening more and more often now. And if he didn't get a handle on this nonsense soon, he'd be in danger of letting it go further.

That was the trouble, really. There was a part of him, the part of him that was still a man and was still Lucien Blake, that wanted to think of her as a woman and wanted to fantasize about her and wanted to let his imagination run wild. But he was not a man and he was not Lucien Blake. Not really. Not anymore. He was Father Blake and he was a priest and he was a servant of God. He knew his vows and he knew his duties. And despite his drunkenness and lax relationship with the strict canon laws, Father Blake had never actually broken his vows. For all that his faith had left him—if in fact it had ever existed to begin with—Father Blake knew that he was, all things considered, a good priest. He taught the children in catechism and the altar boys. He comforted the sick with last rites and consoled the bereaved at funerals. He celebrated the baptisms and confirmations and weddings. He absolved his parishioners of their petty sins when they came to Confession. And cared for this flock that had been entrusted to him as priest of the parish. In spite of who he was and what he did when the cassock and collar were thrown off, Father Blake did what it was his duty to do. Just as Major Blake had done in the army and just as Doctor Blake had done as a surgeon. Lucien always knew who he was and what he was supposed to do.

But now there was a woman involved. A woman who filled his mind and his heart and drove him to distraction. And he was at a loss of what to do.

If Lucien were any other man, he would ask her to dinner. He would court her and buy her flowers and pretty gifts and take her to the cinema and to the theater and for long walks in the park. And, after a reasonable period, he would ask her to be his wife. Things were changing in the world, but those rules of conduct between man and woman were still the same as they'd been when Lucien had been free to do such things. Now, however, Lucien was not any other man. He was not a man at all. He was a priest. And Mrs. Beazley worked for him and helped him and cared for him because he was the parish priest and it was her duty, following that strange night by the willow tree, to ensure that the parish priest could do his duties. Trying to court her or getting anywhere close to the thought of it, was in the most direct violation of those duties. And proper Mrs. Beazley surely would have none of it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beazely. Bye, Father Blake!" little Susan called as her mother rushed into the classroom apologizing up a storm.

Everyone bid their goodbyes, and Lucien smiled after them. And then he and Mrs. Beazley were alone.

It shouldn't have been any different than usual. They were often alone together. It was actually only at catechism or during Mass that they ever had anyone else around. But given where Lucien had allowed his thoughts to wander, it felt strangely heightened now.

"Good class today," she said, obviously blissfully unaware of his present turmoil.

"Was it?" he asked in return. He'd not given it much thought.

She nodded. "The children were engaged. And it is very nice to see that Maggie Collins is participating more and more."

Lucien smiled at that. "Amazing what can happen when one finds the right motivation."

Mrs. Beazley gave a small laugh. "Yes, well, she and Peter are at that age where impressing the boy or girl you've got a crush on is the most important thing in the world."

"Some boys and girls don't grow out of that," he noted teasingly.

"That's very true," she replied in a very knowing fashion.

She turned to hand him the last of the materials to put back in the supply cabinet just as he reached over to grab them himself. Their hands met on top of the box of pens and they both froze.

Lucien thought his heart would thunder right out of his chest. The air felt suddenly sucked from the room. He stared at her, watching and waiting.

Her eyes moved from their touching hands up to his face. The pupils of her turquoise eyes were dark and wide. She seemed to be holding her breath. He saw her gaze flicker from his eyes to his lips and back up.

"Jean," he whispered. He did not know what to say. But he had to say something. And he had to call her by her name. And that was who she was in that moment. Not Mrs. Beazley, not his assistant, not anyone except a beautiful, perfect woman named Jean.

But then the spell was broken. She blinked rapidly, swallowed hard, and stepped away, sliding her hand away from his. "It's getting late, Father Blake. I'd better go."

She hurried out and Lucien just hung his head, cursing himself for what he'd done. What he'd almost done. That shouldn't have happened. He couldn't let that happen. He was slipping. His control was slipping. It wasn't that he was worried about breaking his vows, for they meant practically nothing to him. But there were more things to think about than that. He could not ever allow himself to put her in that position. He was a priest, and if he could not be trusted, what good was he to anyone at all?

This was the sort of thing that others of the cloth might pray about. Something to seek the guidance of God about. But long gone where the days when Lucien felt any real comfort in prayers of his own. And this...this was something he knew he had to keep to himself. Strangely, he did not want to confide in God about this. None of His bloody business, whether He existed or not.

Lucien put away the rest of the supplies and shut off the lights and made his way back to the rectory. There was a fresh bottle of scotch waiting for him. He'd make a good start on it after today. Perhaps even a good finish, too.